


the bad, the good, and the fucking awesome

by tryslora



Series: 1000 follower celebration [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blind Date, Jackson Comes Back, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia sets Stiles up on a blind date. How bad could it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bad, the good, and the fucking awesome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnTheGround2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheGround2012/gifts).



> This is the first prompt fill for my 1k follower celebration on tumblr! This is for the prompt "Jackson & Stiles go on a blind date." and I had some fun with it.

“Danny definitely said he’s my type?” Stiles holds up a tie, frowns at the reflection in the mirror. “Would a tie be over doing it, Lydia?”

“Depends, do you want him to think you’re an accountant, or do you want him to get to know the real you?” Lydia plucks the tie from his hand. “Go with comfortable, but neat, and wear the tight jeans to show off your ass. And yes, Danny said he’s your type.”

“I want him to think about how much he wants to get naked,” Stiles says dryly. “If stripping ties off would do it for him, I’d wear a tie.”

Lydia has her fingers in his hair, artfully mussing it. She stops, pulls back, both eyebrows raised. “Stiles, if this is purely about a booty call, then we are done. I will text Danny, he will text his friend, and this date will be over before it begins.”

“And if I promise not to bring him back to this apartment?” Stiles counters. He swats at her hands before she can start fussing with his hair again.

“You once spent a year hunting down the perfect ass at a club,” Lydia reminds him. “You’ve sowed your wild oats, and if you remember, just last weekend you were whining that you’ll never have anyone to grow old with.”

“You’re the one getting married and moving out of my apartment, leaving me alone,” Stiles grumbles. “I blame you for my loneliness.”

She fixes his collar, pats at it to make it lie flat. “Then don’t be alone. Perhaps this will be the one, Stiles, the one you decide to grow old with and raise snarky little children with. Just try not to think about it in terms of sex or no sex. Give him a try.”

“I can’t believe you’re getting married.” He turns around, pulls her in for a hug, his mouth pressed to the side of her head. “And I can’t believe you’re going to spend the next few hours having incredibly loud sex because you know I’ll be out.”

“Why wouldn’t I take advantage of an empty apartment?” Lydia laughs, turns him toward the door. “Go, Stiles, and have fun. And definitely don’t come back until midnight.”

She’s having too much fun with this. Stiles gets the feeling there’s something she’s not telling him, but how bad could it be? She obviously expects this to work out well enough that he really won’t bother coming home.

#

It’s bad.

It’s really, really bad.

Stiles stops following the hostess before they’ve made it halfway to the table, and she loops back to get him. “That’s the one waiting for me?” he asks, voice low.

“Under the reservation for Martin?” Her voice lilts up with her smile. “Yes. If you’d like to take your seat, Ms. Martin requested that we start you off with a bottle of the upper tier house red.”

The thing is, Lydia has to have known. She and Danny talked. There is no way that this could have happened accidentally.

But there is also absolutely no way that she would have done this to him on purpose. Is there?

The hostess motions gently, and Stiles follows her, trailing along like a wary duckling. He has a smile by the time he arrives at the table, a slow burn of a smirk that twists one corner of his mouth up.

He’s glad to see that the other man looks just as surprised as Stiles felt a moment ago.

“I’ll be right back with the wine,” the hostess says, and takes her leave.

Stiles pulls out a chair across the table and lowers himself into it. “Jackson,” he says quietly, because he honestly isn’t exactly sure what else to say.

“I should have known Danny and Lydia were up to something,” Jackson replies. There’s a lilt to his voice that wasn’t there before—a change in the shape of the vowels, and the way the consonants clip—and Stiles supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been ten years since they last saw each other, and as far as he knows, Jackson’s been overseas the entire time.

He tilts his head, choosing to take in Jackson’s appearance rather than answering right away. The cheekbones could still cut glass. Perfect lines and a chiseled jaw, although tiny crinkles have appeared around his eyes. Laugh lines, as if Jackson’s found amusement in life away from Beacon Hills.

Stiles taps his fingers on the table, watches as Jackson’s gaze drops to his hands. He uses one fingertip to draw an idle pattern on the table, and Jackson follows it. Stiles lifts his hand, snaps his fingers. “I never thought we’d be speechless if we saw each other again,” he says.

“All you have to do is say something, Stilinski,” Jackson points out.

“I could say the same for you.” Stiles isn’t done looking at him yet. The eyes are the same, aside from the slightly crinkled corners. The face seems a little thinner, which isn’t a surprise. Stiles has a mirror, knows how his own appearance changed between sixteen and twenty-six, and he certainly wouldn’t have expected Jackson to stay the same. On the other hand, Jackson won the hormone lottery with broader shoulders, and pecs that Stiles can just barely see the outline of beneath the t-shirt and suit jacket that Jackson wears.

Casual and formal all at once. Pretentious.

“Are you still an asshole?” Stiles asks, and Jackson laughs.

“Yes. You?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “We speak snark as a primary language in the apartment, and English after that,” he says easily. “I live with Lydia. What do you think?”

“I think Danny got the wrong idea when I said I liked a nice ass,” Jackson snipes, and despite himself, it makes Stiles laugh.

“At least you think my ass is nice.”

Jackson’s gaze drops, and Stiles stands up, turns around to put that ass on display since he figures he might as well show off a little. “Never said your ass was nice. Danny seems to think _you_ are nice,” Jackson points out.

“Yeah, well, you can’t really blame this entirely on him.” Stiles may want to blame Lydia, but he knows how it started, with a friend of Danny’s mentioning another friend who was new in town, and somehow Stiles’s name came up. The thing is, that may be how it _started_ , but once Lydia and Danny got involved, they knew what was going on and they kept it from him. From both of them. “Okay, I changed my mind. Let’s blame this entirely on Lydia and Danny.”

“Lydia paid for a decent wine, and Danny coughed up for something special for dessert.” Jackson shrugs one shoulder. “If they want to pay for the two of us to try not to kill each other, I’m game for spending an hour or two eating a meal together.”

“It has to be four or five hours,” Stiles grumbles. “I can’t go back to the apartment until Lydia’s done exhausting her fiancé. We have rules for a reason, and we have both been traumatized before. I think she actually thought I wouldn’t come home.”

Both of Jackson’s eyebrows fly up. Jackson gestures between Stiles and himself. “She thought you and I…”

“Yep.” Stiles pops the consonant. “Lydia thought that you’d be taking me home with you, doing whatever it is we might come up with to do. Like each other.” It occurs to him that there’s another option. “Or she thinks you’d drown me, but I’d like to think Lydia loves me and wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me. She’ll be moving out soon enough; she doesn’t need the apartment for herself.”

Jackson snorts, just a little. “She’s loud,” he says, and Stiles nods quickly.

“Oh hell, yes, she’s loud. Which is gratifying when she’s under your tongue, right?” Stiles waves his fingers and is relieved when Jackson makes an agreeing sort of expression—it’s awkward talking about oral sex on your ex-girlfriend who also happens to be your current date’s ex as well. “I mean all that noise, it’s great feedback. But when it’s in the next room over, it’s just a bit… awkward. And vaguely uncomfortable. And it’s not like you can just,” he makes a quick hand motion, “because you _know_ that somehow she’ll know and give you shit about it in the morning. It’s like getting a hard on and shriveling up all at once.”

Jackson’s gaze seems to follow the path of his fingertips, falling to watch as Stiles finally rests his hands on the table. Stiles wiggles his fingers, and there’s a faint flush under the freckles when Jackson finally looks back up. “I know what you mean,” Jackson says, a small smirk tilting one corner of his mouth. “Bet she loved your hands.”

“These?” Stiles puts his fingers up, wiggles them. “Oh hell yes. Talented.”

“Mm.”

“Talented tongue, too.” Stiles knows he shouldn’t taunt Jackson. They have history. Hell, they have an entire textbook or three worth of it, and that’s only until they were sixteen. Jackson had a restraining order against him once upon a time, and he’s pretty sure that it hasn’t been entirely forgotten. On the other hand, it’s been ten whole minutes and they haven’t tried to kill each other yet.

Jackson pours a glass from the wine bottle that was delivered, takes a sip and licks his lips slowly. Might be that Stiles isn’t the only one being obnoxious here.

Only another few hours to go.

#

It turns out that the wine is good.

Really good.

It’s an order a second bottle sort of good, and an affecting werewolf physiology as much as human sort of good. Stiles wants to know what it is, what makes it special. Obviously nothing poisonous to humans, since they’re drinking from the same bottle, but there is _something_ in it that has made Jackson lax and calm, just a little looser with his words and way of speaking.

It’s a good look on him, and Stiles can’t remember ever seeing him like that before.

They are also both more than a little too far gone to drive. The hostess offers to call them each a cab, and Jackson raises one hand, finger pointed, and decides that they only need one cab and Jackson will pay for it.

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles tells him.

“I know.” Jackson leans against the wall as they wait for the cab to arrive, his hands shoved into his pockets. “But I also thought that we could head to mine, if you want to keep talking. We don’t have to be done quite yet.”

“Are you saying that because of the wine or because you’ve suddenly developed an attraction to me?” Stiles asks dryly. Because if it was ten years ago, they’d be lucky to be this civil.

And the funny thing is, it’s been a good date. They’ve avoided talking about their lives, avoided talking about the intervening decade. Instead they’ve argued about baseball, discussed soccer versus football, and the state of politics. Jackson’s told Stiles about the job he has with an advertising agency, and Stiles in turn told office stories from the private school where both he and Lydia teach. They went off on a tangent about Lydia’s research for a while, and the startup Danny did that Stiles helped with, and how Jackson designed the art for the logo and online advertising.

They haven’t touched on anything _real_ , but at the same time, they’ve talked about everything without once trying to kill each other.

Jackson’s gaze drops, and Stiles follows the path just as Jackson says, “Because of your hands.” When Stiles meets his gaze, startled, Jackson flushes under his freckles. “You still talk with your hands,” Jackson explains. “Long fingers. Graceful. I figure you’re probably good with your hands.”

 _Fuck_. Because that just makes Stiles start thinking about where he could put those hands, and how Jackson might react, and he wonders if that’s where Jackson is going with all of this. Stiles licks his lips, and Jackson follows the path of his tongue and yeah… Stiles is pretty sure they’re on the same page with this one.

“Is that the alcohol talking?” Stiles asks quietly, because he really doesn’t want to start something they’re going to regret. They’ve had enough issues over the year.

“Might be,” Jackson admits. “Which doesn’t mean don’t come over. It just means… maybe we keep our hands to ourselves and keep talking. It’s not like we’ve run out of things to talk about.”

The cab pulls up, honks twice, and there isn’t time left to think about it. Stiles nods his head once, pulls the door open with a quick jerk and motions for Jackson to step through before he follows.

Talking. Yeah. Talking.

They could do that.

#

They manage to get through the first few years of catching up. Nogitsune, Allison’s death, the shift in pack dynamics. It turns out that Jackson heard some of it from Danny when it happened, then cut off contact completely, not wanting to hear about a pack that he felt like he should help, and couldn’t.

“For what it’s worth, I know what it feels like,” Jackson says quietly. They’re sitting at opposite ends of the couch, knees bent and feet touching in the middle. “I know it doesn’t just go away. Do you still get nightmares?”

“Sometimes.” Stiles tries not to admit it, but he’s sure Lydia’s heard him on those rare nights when the demon takes over his mind. “It’s easier when someone’s around.”

“Dating?”

“Not currently, obviously.” Stiles pokes Jackson’s foot with his toe. “But when I was, yeah, it was a little better. Reminds me I’m human. Not to mention that I’m an octopus when I sleep, apparently. Lydia still says she broke up with me because as good as I am with my tongue and hands, she hated sleeping in the same bed.”

“Lydia never appreciated cuddling.” Jackson tilts his head, drinks from the water bottle in his hand.

Hydration. It’s a good thing.

“And you do?” Stiles raises an eyebrow, curious. He grins when Jackson nods. “Good. Then we can share a bed tonight, because this couch is fucking lumpy. I never thought I’d see you own something that didn’t feel expensive.”

“It _is_ expensive,” Jackson tells him, voice clipped. “It’s for sitting, not sleeping.”

“Dude, you have got to check your priorities.” Stiles stretches out a little more. “The best couches are made for sleeping.” His toe slides along Jackson’s side until Jackson catches his foot, strokes a finger along the top of it.

“Mm. We’re just sleeping tonight.”

“And cuddling?”

Jackson snorts softly. “Cuddling might be on the table. Would you regret it in the morning?”

Stiles considers him, lets his gaze rake over him from head to toe. “No,” he says slowly. “I really wouldn’t. We’re not the same people we were ten years ago—if we were, we’d have banged already and I would’ve left. It would’ve been who gives a fuck that we’re kind of drunk, who gives a fuck if it has ramifications. Sex was sex, and hell, it probably would’ve been hot angry sex, and we would’ve been fine with that. And the funny thing is, I get the feeling I could like you now.”

“That’s the alcohol talking,” Jackson muses.

“First time with a guy,” Stiles says quickly, shifting the subject. “Tell me about it. When the fuck did you figure out you were into guys as well as girls?”

“What makes you think I wasn’t always?” Jackson counters, leaning forward. “You weren’t my type in high school.”

“Not rich enough, not hot enough, not popular enough.” Stiles remembers it well.

Jackson’s expression is rueful. “Yeah, well, I’ve grown up, remember?”

“And now your type is long fingers and good with their hands?” Stiles wiggles his fingers at him.

Jackson smirks. “And tongue. Good with your tongue is a definite point in your favor.”

It’s tempting, _so_ tempting to prove just how good he is. But alcohol and drunk, and Stiles knows better than to start something out in a fucked up way.

But there’s no reason he can’t offer a hint. A teaser. A preview of what the morning might be like.

Stiles leans forward, reaches out to hook a hand behind Jackson’s head. Jackson moves with the gentle tug and they meet in the middle, lips brushing before Stiles deepens the kiss, tongue sweeping along the seam of Jackson’s lips. Jackson lets him in with a soft sigh, and it’s somehow easy to kiss him, like finding the right place to be.

They end up lying down on the couch, Jackson sprawled over Stiles, just kissing and nothing more. It’s good, really good, almost as good as the wine. And yeah, there’s more to it than kissing—Stiles could definitely do more, if they wanted to go there—but he doesn’t feel that urgency like he has to.

In a strange sort of way, it’s like coming home. Like he’s found that comfortable place.

“Is it weird that I could just keep doing this all night?” Stiles asks in a brief break, tilting his head back while Jackson nuzzles against his throat, nipping and sucking until Stiles is sure there’s going to be a mark.

“Maybe,” Jackson murmurs against his skin. “Maybe not. Maybe we should ask again when we’re sober.”

Maybe it’ll make sense when they’re sober, in ways that Stiles can’t quite parse now. He cradles Jackson’s head, brings him back to meet his mouth, open and sloppy, grinding his hips up in a slow motion that Jackson meets, pressing down. It’s good. It’s really fucking good, and it doesn’t need to go anywhere, not right now.

Stiles has never fallen asleep before in the middle of making out, but that’s what happens there on the couch. And as it turns out, Jackson is definitely a cuddler, and a great barrier against the nightmares that can’t get anywhere near them.

#

And in the dead sober early light of morning, they finish what they started, with all the urgency and need they didn’t have the night before.

Going out to breakfast turns out to be a great second date, and they decide that the movie that afternoon is a third date, so at least they’ve got three dates under their belt before they have sex again.

And again.

And maybe again.

#

“Stiles.” Lydia sits on the edge of the couch, tapping one nail against her knee when he walks into the apartment. “You do realize that you haven’t been home since Friday night?”

“Mm-hm.” It would be hard to miss, given that he had to buy a clean pair of jeans on Saturday because he and Jackson aren’t the same size at all. “And it’s Sunday now, yes,” he says, falling into the overstuffed chair that faces her.

“You didn’t think you should text me?” She arches one eyebrow.

“I texted you.” Stiles had specifically waited until Saturday after the movie, and had chosen every symbol with care and help from Jackson.

“Boys kissing, middle finger, O face, and dragon emojis are _not_ a text,” she says dryly.

“You’re the one who set me up on a blind date with _Jackson Whittemore_ ,” Stiles counters sharply. “You’re just lucky it worked out and I didn’t walk back in here while you were banging on the living room couch.” His gaze drops to where she sits. “You didn’t bang on the couch, did you? I was planning on keeping that couch after you moved out.”

Lydia smiles angelically. “Kitchen counters. Saturday. After the emojis. You might want to bleach things.” She stands up and smooths down her skirt, then kisses his forehead. “I’m glad you had a good time, and no, I don’t want to know anything about his prehensile tongue or the things you did to him with your amazing fingers. And yes, he’s already invited to the wedding, if the two of you don’t break up first. Give it a chance, Stiles.”

He catches her hand, brings her fingertips to his lips. “We will. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you and Danny are just as devious and assholish as I am.”

“We do love you.”

Stiles watches her head down the hall, then pulls out his phone. _They fucked in the kitchen,_ he texts Jackson. _We are totally doing it in the coat room at their wedding_.

When the phone dings back that Jackson’s up for it, Stiles grins. Because honestly, what could be better than two assholes in love?

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com).


End file.
